Campbell went back instantly.  “No, my dear sir, let me entreat you for my sake.  What has passed has been too terrible to me already; if it has done any good, do not let us break it by spoiling the law.”

“I believe you’re right, sir:  but my blood is up, and no wonder.  Why, where is the preacher?”

He had stood quite still for several minutes after Campbell’s adjuration.  He had, often perhaps, himself hurled forth such words in the excitement of preaching; but never before had he heard them pronounced in spirit and in truth.  And as he stood, Thurnall, who had his doctor’s eye on him, saw him turn paler and more pale.  Suddenly he clenched his teeth, and stooped slightly forwards for a moment, drawing his breath.  Thurnall walked quickly and steadily up to him.

Gentleman Jan and two other riotous fellows had already laid hold of him, more with the intention of frightening, than of really ducking him.

“Don’t! don’t!” cried he, looking round with eyes wild—­but not with terror.

“Hands off, my good lads,” said Tom quietly.  “This is my business now, not yours, I can tell you.”

And passing the preacher’s arm through his own, with a serious face, Tom led him off into the house at the back of the chapel.

In two hours more he was blue; in four he was a corpse.  The judgment, as usual, had needed no miracle to enforce it.

Tom went to Campbell that night, and apprised him of the fact.  “Those words of yours went through him, sir, like a Minie bullet.  I was afraid of what would happen when I heard them.”

“So was I, the moment after they were spoken.  But, sir, I felt a power upon me,—­you may think it a fancy,—­that there was no resisting.”

“I dare impute no fancies, when I hear such truth and reason as you spoke upon that stone, sir.”

“Then you do not blame me?” asked Campbell, with a subdued, almost deprecatory voice, such as Thurnall had never heard in him before.

“The man deserved to die, and he died, sir.  It is well that there are some means left on earth of punishing offenders whom the law cannot touch.”

“It is an awful responsibility.”

“Not more awful than killing a man in battle, which we both have done, sir, and yet have felt no sting of conscience.”

“An awful responsibility still.  Yet what else is life made up of, from morn to night, but of deeds which may earn heaven or hell?...  Well, as he did to others, so was it done to him.  God forgive him!  At least, our cause will be soon tried and judged:  there is little fear of my not meeting him again—­soon enough.”  And Campbell, with a sad smile, lay back in his chair and was silent.

“My dear sir,” said Tom, “allow me to remind you, after this excitement comes a collapse; and that is not to be trifled with just now.  Medicine I dare not give you.  Food I must.”

Campbell shook his head.